Choke
by Smidy
Summary: Post Cold Blood, no Vincent: The very moment that brilliant, funny, gorgeous Rory sacrificed himself for the ancient, dark, unworthy Doctor, the Doctor knew he was going to lose.


_AN: Yeah. I've been listening to Radiohead. You can blame 'Exit Music (For A Film) for this. Entirely it's fault. Hope it's ok :)_

* * *

The very moment that brilliant, funny, _gorgeous_ Rory sacrificed himself for the ancient, dark, _unworthy_ Doctor, the Doctor knew he was going to lose.

_What_ he would lose, he did not rightly know, but a feeling of defeat blanketed him quickly, smothered his eyes and forced his voice into a calm, remorseful drone. Amy screamed, and she cried, and she clung desperately to Rory, and the Doctor felt awkward about the tenderness in her actions. The desperation. Even this regeneration, boisterous and hot-headed and cross, still made that stony transition in the face of loss; the pragmatic, resigned old man. The scapegoat.

That was why, when the excess energy spiraled out of the crack in the Universe, and began it's destruction, the Doctor embraced his role and wrenched Amy away. She yelled and cursed and threatened and pleaded, but he was efficient. He was experienced. Once inside, he coldly steered the TARDIS to safety, compensating by indulging desperately in a wild, human hope.

Gathering Amy to him, he ignored his sneering reason and urged her to remember. "Memories are much stronger than you think. Rory does not have to disappear, he can live in your mind! In your memories!" In the depth of her eyes, hope struggled through despair.

"I can't." she muttered, empty.

The Doctor, invested fully now, daring himself to believe, reiterated,"You _can_! Concentrate! Let nothing distract you!" He was pushing now, dashing blindly into the area that, after Ten, he had vowed to avoid forevermore. Excitement, muted by desperation and an innate understanding of the gravity of the situation flooded through him, swirling about his mind in crazed spirals.

This, he mused, was the moment when the absolute might of his military was viewed in all its glory – his weapons of over-confidence, acquired wisdom, pride and an infallible belief seeming indestructible, unstoppable and charmingly subtle. Guns? Pah. Armies? Too crowded. Magic? Absolutely unnecessary. He had his mind. The most powerful weapon in existence, unable to be controlled, unable to be predicted, unable to be foiled.

"Amy," he whispered, "Just think - "

The TARDIS lurched roughly, throwing Amy to the ground and breaking her concentration.

He had lost.

This, he bitterly reflected, was the moment when the absolute hoax of his military was viewed in all it's truth and honesty. Even his mind had froze, humbled by a freezing despair.

Now suddenly carefree, drunk off the action and drama, Amy glanced at him, eyes clear. "What were you saying?" she asked distractedly.

He stared at her, noting how, like her Rory, like her future, like her love, her tears had been erased from history as well. She flounced off and the Doctor stooped down to gingerly collect the small red box that had fallen off the console, letting it drop deep into his pocket.

Guilt flung it's blackened arm over the Doctor's shoulders like an old, beloved friend. The Doctor sighed, "Welcome back."

Guilt seemed amused, "I wasn't aware that I'd left."

* * *

And so, everything changed.

Guilt succeeded his fancy as the pilot of the TARDIS and aliens and rescues and abstract worlds were forgotten. He took her to the Musee D'Orsay.. He took her to Space Florida. He took her to the Trojan Gardens. He even finally took her to Rio. And everywhere, they _enjoyed_ themselves. They didn't hide from angered beasts, they didn't offend local chiefs and emperors, they didn't face any sort of deathly peril whatsoever. They didn't even run. Not once.

He started this for her, he was aware, but by the third trip, he found that he was also pleasing himself. He tried to convince himself that this was fair, this was right. _Of course_ he had no desire to challenge history. _Of course _he would rather lamely follow Amy around on her daft pursuits. He had just lost a companion! This was called mourning. This was expected. This was human.

He scoffed. Sometimes, he made himself sick. And by sometimes, he meant most times.

Even as he was thinking this, fabricating this excuse, he knew it was a lie. The real reason was much more selfish.

Simply, the sightseeing, the pointless travel, made Amy happy. And making her happy eased the weight of Guilt's arm upon his shoulder.

When she ran avidly around the Vincent Van Gogh exhibition and declared herself so in love with his work that she'd 'probably snog him right that instant', the Doctor felt marginally excused. When he bought her everlasting ice cream at Space Florida and saw her wonder at the majesty of the Gardens, he felt almost forgiven. On the streets of Rio, 2015, when she hugged him tightly and congratulated him teasingly on finally 'getting it bloody right this time', he felt free.

* * *

That was how it had happened, he reasoned., how he'd forgotten himself in the library. High on the feeling of what he forced himself to deem a successful atonement, he was animatedly defending the merits of his favourite author, stubborn and passionate in the face of Amy's endless taunts.

"How old are you again?" she inquired pointedly.

"907." he primly retorted.

She smirked, "And you're reading _The BFG_."

"Yes." he looked puzzled.

"A book for 9 year old _human_ children?"

"I'll have you know, alright, that _despite_ my age, or perhaps _because_ of it, I find all Roald Dahl novels -"

"Boring?" she interjected.

"No. I actually think they're quite - "

"Childish."

"No! Amy, really, you must read them. Under the guise of a tale of talking foxes, or incredibly intelligent small girls and horrible Headmistresses, or enormous chocolate factories and funny men with canes, or hoards of evil witches in seaside hotels, there's actually a raging undercurrent of biting social commentary and topical ponderings on the human condition! For instance, in _Matilda_, Roald Dahl pays particular attention to the definite article preceding certain characters in the novel, thus denoting - "

Amy pretended to snore.

But the Doctor could not be stopped, launching out of his seat and proceeding to lean both hands on her armrests, face inches from her own. " - thus denoting what the reader is supposed to _think_ of those certain characters! Isn't that brilliant? _Definite articles_! _Denoting characterisation_! I've always _thought_ they were too undervalued. All you humans mucking about with the generic 'her' and 'him' when you could have been exploring _so many_ other possibilities! I just can't fathom it! How _could_ you not - "

Amy placed a finger on his lips, "Oh, will you just SHUT UP!" His mouth clamped shut, but she could still see the rest of his spiel being performed in his eyes. Oh bloody hell. She decided to change topic.

"Which one is your favourite?"

He was imbued with a new wave of excitement. Shit. "_Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator._"

She steadied herself, preparing for the onslaught the next question could produce. "And why is that?"

"Why is it my favourite?" He looked confused, then embarrassed. He glanced down at her, sheepish. "Because... because it reminds me of me." He paused, then elaborated. "I have a Great Glass Elevator. Well, actually, you know, it's a TARDIS, but generally, it does the same thing – go into space. But then the TARDIS can also travel through time so...yeah."

Amy looked unimpressed.

He pushed on, "And I think I'm slightly reminiscent of Willy Wonka, don't you? I mean, I don't have a chocolate factory, and well, I'm not human and I don't have a cane - " his eyes lit up, " - but I could _get_ one! Canes are cool!"

This was getting ridiculous. If he didn't shut up soon, she'd have to resort to drastic (if enjoyable) measures. _Very_ soon.

"I wonder what his cane is made of, because it never really mentions it in the book. I'd have to get the exact same cane. Maybe I could ask a cane specialist in a cane shop! What are they called? Cane-ologists? Cane-oids? Cane - "

He lost, Amy decided.

She kissed him then, pulling his face down to hers and running her hands through his hair. She fully expected a reaction akin to the one she received when she tried this on earlier in her bedroom – it would certainly be easier for him to back out this time. But then she felt his hand coming up to cup her cheek, felt him kissing back, and reasoned that if Roald Dahl was _this_ much of an aphrodisiac for him, she might start liking him too.

The Doctor meanwhile, within his mind, warm and content with such stimulating conversation, be it slightly one-sided, continued mulling over the correct title for one who specialises with canes for quite a while, unaware of what his body was doing, or, rather, doing to Amy. Then, her teeth grazed his bottom lip and she stood up out of the chair, sliding her arms around his neck and pressing himself against him.

Itshould have been clear then. Directly afterwards, he thinks, in a way, that it was. Later, the Doctor knows, disgusted, that it _definitely_ was.

The Doctor kept kissing Amy for several more moments, dirty opportunism allowing him to press her against a bookcase and encouraged his hands to roam.

But then he saw Rory's eyes, flashing through his mind. And he stopped, wrenching himself from Amy's embrace and bolting from the room.

* * *

It took him some time to find what he was looking for.

He flashed through rooms, slamming doors and brushing curtains aside. The hallways twisted and turned in mockery of him and he hurled himself around corners, desperately trying to defeat them at their own trickery. He ran and ran, encountering room after room and corridor after corridor, refusing to stop or slow.

The desperation mounted, the frustration made taunting sentences whisper around his head and Guilt scratched and snatched at him. He skidded to a halt along a winding corridor, kicking and hitting the surrounding walls, eyes flashing like a madman. He looked wild, uncouth and unsafe – this was the Oncoming Storm. He collapsed to the ground, glaring at the ceiling. "Just show me already!" he howled, and upon his command, a door materialised to his right.

Climbing slowly up, he staggered towards the doorway, gripping the handle and flinging it open. Here it was.

It was a cavernous room, with a small bed pushed into the corner adjacent to a wooden, battered nightstand. There was no wardrobe, no desk, no trinkets. The room was, otherwise, completely bare. All it had was the photos. Photos of varying sizes, from Polaroid to apparent murals, gripped every spare inch of the walls. They were not carefully arranged, some overlapping others, corners cutting images and pictures sometimes distorted. It appeared that despair had placed them all this way. Their subjects were as alike as they were different, faces of different colours, expressions and ages blaring out, seeming somewhat like inmates in a deranged prison.

The Doctor knew better. In reality, they were actually the guards.

He scanned them all quickly, panting from exertion, before finally settling on one in the closest corner. He scrambled over, leaning heavily on the wall beside the photo and stared pleadingly at it. Rory's eyes stared back, unmoving and unforgiving. From across the room, he felt Rose's gaze upon him, and Martha's and Donna's. Captain Adelaide Brooke leveled her steely gaze at him from above the nightstand and Ricky looked on angrily. He stayed there until his breathing had calmed, and then for many hours afterward.

He'd found what he'd wanted in Rory's eyes. They told him that he had lost.

* * *

The next day, the Doctor and Amy were washing the dishes. He washed and she dried, standing blankly at the large white sink. They were silent, and only half-focused on their work. It felt staged, ridiculous, and Amy could not bear it.

She turned slightly towards him. "I kissed you," she said.

They washed and dried a mug.

He paused. "Yes."

"You kissed me back."

They washed and dried 2 plates and a glass.

He sighed. "Yes."

She smirked slightly, eyes narrowing with amusement.

"I'm going to do it again."

He dropped the plate he was holding. She mistook this for gentleman-like affront at her forward assertions. He wanted to run.

Instead, he managed, "Amy, I don't think - "

"You don't think it's a good idea. Yeah, I've heard." she finished. Her eyebrow quirked in challenge, "Give me one good reason."

He recited his fallback excuse, "Amy, I'm 907 years old. I never age and - "

"It's never going to work. Yeah, I've heard that too. You know how I stand on that one though, Doctor." She cocked her head to one side and pursed her lips in mock-though, then smirked. "If I'm not much mistaken, I think I told you whilst I had you pressed against the TARDIS. Do you remember now?"

He did. Vividly.

She turned fully to him now, the dishes forgotten. "Give me a real reason."

He looked at her, all sexy and confident and amused. He wanted to scream 'Because I killed the only man you ever loved!" But he knew he couldn't. As it stood, Amelia Pond had never loved anyone. Rory had never been there to show her how.

"Doctor?"

He shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and then everything changed.

She grinned wickedly, walking slowly to him, running her hands up his chest and playing with the hair on the nape of his neck.

He grit his teeth and thought of the room. The smell of her hair wafted around him, but he willed himself to think of Rory, of his photo, of the engagement ring in his pocket. She began to kiss his neck, reaching up every now and then to whisper in his ear. He shut his eyes, clenched his fists, entire body rigid. It surged through his veins, like lava, and he had no idea what it was. One second, it was cheering, screaming at him to kiss her, to _make her happy_ by surrender, and then it flipped, Rory's memory causing his insides to clench unbearably, making him feel hunched and burdened: like the old man he truly was.

He was panting again, and, in an instant, was reminded of the very beginning of it all. Not, though, of Rory saving him, nor of Amy's spinning distress – rather, of the exact moment Rory began to not exist. The very moment, not when the light had begun to devour him, but when Amy Pond had forgotten him.

This stirred something within him, the exact phrasing: Rory did not exist.

Free, his mind thought devilishly. Rory was never here.

Instantly, he regretted these thoughts. Instantly, he burned them from his conscience, ripped and tore them, covered and scribbled them out. Instantly, they were erased from his mind.

The ramifications, however, were already in play. He was toppling, tumbling, wheeling over the edge. Guilt pressed down on him and he riled against it.

He just wanted to make her happy. It was all he could do. It was all he could do. It was all he could do.

He felt her breath on his ear.

"Please."

He was done for.

* * *

It was rough. Glorious. Unknowable.

Afterward, they lay on her bed. "I'm sorry." he whispered to the ceiling.

She turned away from him, a tear sliding down her cheek. She didn't know why, but she felt that the apology and the tear were for someone else.

* * *

This time, he found the room quickly. He entered, and above the bed, found exactly what he was looking for. It seemed he belonged here now.

He stared, and saw his own eyes staring back at him.

He had truly lost now.


End file.
